Those who know me may be surprised by what I am writing. I am not soft and cuddly. I do not give hugs easily or frequently. I am an avid practitioner of gallows humor. But lately, even my insensitive self has been struck by an undertone of caregiver alienation. By alienation, I mean estrangement or a loss or lack of sympathy for our patients. There is an Us, and there is a Them. And “they,” our patients, do not seem to make sense to us. The alienation frequently appears as follows. The trainee will present a case to me, starting with, “I don’t know why this patient is here ….” Often the patient has a minor complaint that does not seem to warrant a 3 a.m. visit to the emergency department (ED). But there is almost always a reason, a hidden fear. When I ask the trainee about this, I am likely to receive a puzzled look, as if to say, “He’s here for a fever, like I said.” When I ask the patients or their parents the same question, it is there, waiting. “I’m scared of fevers because my brother died of meningitis.” Telling the patient’s parents how to treat a viral-induced fever is palliative; telling them their child is not going to die from meningitis is therapeutic. Another frequent scenario is the difficult patient or family. I am usually alerted to the presence of a difficult patient by some grousing in the charting area. “This mother is such a witch,” or “This father is just plain mean.” These descriptions are usually painfully accurate, and delivering care in these cases is not easy or pleasant. However, the provider anger and surprise surrounding such patients always interests me. Is it really so hard to understand how a mother becomes a witch on her 30th ED trip for her child’s chemotherapy-induced fever and neutropenia or why a father is mean after a 3-hour wait with a crying child in his arms? When my husband was diagnosed with metastatic pancreatic cancer, I had many opportunities to see health care from the other side. One day, when we were in pre-op testing prior to his Whipple procedure, my husband passed out while having his blood drawn. As the anesthesiologist ran into the room for the “code,” he yelled out “Get this guy to the emergency room, his surgery is canceled.” My first response was revulsion. Having seen my husband vasovagal from prior blood draws, I knew he was ok. But what was not ok was the sudden cold reduction of my husband of 17 years to “this guy.” The anesthesiologist, who did not know I was a medical provider, gave no thought to canceling my husband’s lifesaving procedure, nor any inclination to comfort us as he attempted to do so (the Whipple was not canceled and my husband is doing beautifully). Since then, I have been on the lookout for such moments, where we as providers lose the recognition of the personhood of the people we are treating. Compassionate care is not a luxury just for oncologists. Nor does it have to be a time-intensive indulgence. It is literally just the recognition, “I could be you.” Maybe most of us need a bit of hardship, which usually comes with advanced age, before we are capable of such recognition. Yet I will argue that physicians who attempt to see themselves in their patients deliver better and more effective care to their patients. Patients who feel heard are less likely to complain about their ED visits and perhaps less likely to feel the need to return for another one. So, in this checklist era, I propose the following ED protocol for compassionate care: Assume your patient has been waiting a while to see you. Start off with a sentence that acknowledges that you are aware that his/her time is important, too, and you have not been squandering it. Assume your patient is scared. He or she may seem angry or withdrawn. He or she may seem controlling or obstructive. Most of this is likely born of fear. Try to be understanding. For the few patients that are just plain mean, try to ignore it. Assume there is a reason that your patient has come to the ED. It may not be a reason that you think is cogent, but it still needs to be addressed. Assume your patient is intelligent, which is not the same things as educated. Explain why you have made the care plan you have made. Ask if there are barriers that would make your care plan difficult. If steps 1 through 4 fail you, assume the patient is your mother, brother, or best friend. Act accordingly.
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